


Cookie Shapes

by Meilan_Firaga



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Darcyland (Marvel), Darcyland Secret Santa 2016, F/M, Fluff, Holiday Fic Exchange, Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 11:13:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14307450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meilan_Firaga/pseuds/Meilan_Firaga
Summary: Written for secondalto during the Darcyland Secret Santa 2016. Darcy is just trying to prep the cookies for a little impromptu decorating party at the tower, butsomeonekeeps eating pieces and making the cookies look so very naughty...





	Cookie Shapes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [secondalto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondalto/gifts).



> I swear, I am forever finding fics that I never got around to posting over here. This one was made for the Darcyland Secret Santa 2016.

When Darcy first turned around in the Avengers’ massive communal kitchen to find one of her gingerbread men looking suspiciously phallic, she wrote it off. It was possible that she’d broken off the arms transferring the poor little cookie from the baking sheet to the cooling rack. There were some scattered crumbs that could back that theory up, though she’d be taking a leap in ignoring the fact that the amputated limbs were nowhere to be found. Still, it was the holiday season. She was not going to jump to the immediate conclusion of sabotage. Instead, she turned back to cutting out the shapes of batch number two and arranging them on the next round of cookie sheets.

The next time she turned around there were three maimed gingerbread men on the cooling rack. She hadn’t heard a sound. There had been no movement from the corner of her eye. Unless the Black Widow had suddenly reverted to the sense of humor of a twelve year old boy, that could only mean one thing. Lifting an empty mixing bowl from the counter, Darcy moved over to the sink. She started to wash the bowl, completely ignoring its nearly pristine state. After several moments of that same deafening silence, she aimed the extendable sprayer over her shoulder instead of into the sink and shot a jet of water across the kitchen. There was a sharp shout and then a thump. She let up on the handle of the sprayer, dropping it into the sink as she turned back toward the island she’d been using as a cooling station. A wet, mussed Hawkeye was standing from where he’d fallen on the far side of the island, rubbing the back of his neck. Above him, a thick rope dangled down from the open ceiling vent by about four feet.

Clint Barton had become Darcy’s best friend since she and Jane had moved into Avengers’ Tower. What had started as both of them struggling to cope with varying forms of insomnia had developed into movie marathons and the best possible team up to prank every other Tower resident. Plus, he praised her cooking with flattering rants at every available opportunity. Honestly, she probably should have fortified the kitchen before she started baking since she knew he was in residence.

“Aw, come on, Darce,” Clint groaned, his eyes tracing mournfully over the rows of cookies that had been doused alongside him. “You’ve soaked some of the cookies!”

Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “Their noble sacrifice will not be forgotten,” she assured him, “especially since their deaths were to prevent a certain grown man who should totally know better from turning their brethren into penises!” Reaching blindly behind her, she chucked the first thing she found at his head. Clint caught the scrubber--much to Darcy’s disappointment--just before it would have smacked him in the face. “You’re such a jerk!” Bemused, Clint just popped an arm from another defenseless gingerbread man.

“That’s a little harsh, dontcha think?” he teased around a mouthful of cookie. “I mean, we both know you love me.”

She fought down the flush that threatened to take over her face. He didn’t know about her sexy arms dreams and never would. He just meant the whole friendship thing. “Best friend status,” she began, pointing an accusing finger at him, “nets you the first taste of the cookies. It does not grant cookie maiming privileges.” She turned back to the upright mixer she’d commandeered for her baking, completely missing the way his face fell as she did. “You’ve got two choices, bird boy. Either you clear away the cookies you’ve already destroyed and get out of this kitchen until I call for you, or you become my mixing slave.”

“Do mixing slaves get to sample dough?”

“Shut up and choose, Clint.”

It was lucky he caught the large ball of dough in her hands when she turned around again before it hit the floor. Darcy had never heard him move, but when she went to start rolling out the next batch he was so close she could have collided with his chest. Clint just smirked at her--startling her into clumsiness was his third favorite pastime next to snarking with Tony and eating--and dragged the dough ball to the counter she’d kept under a steady blanket of flour all morning. She gave him a half hearted thump on the shoulder and set him to rolling out the dough (“Use those fabulous arms for something for a change.” “You really think they’re fabulous?” “Shut up and roll, Katniss.”). They worked in tandem for the next few hours, sniping back and forth all the while. It wasn’t the first time that Clint had helped Darcy with her baking, so it took next to no time before they had the perfect rhythm. Clint even took to shooing away the other Avengers when they were drawn in by the spicy scents wafting from the room.

It was nearly evening when Darcy began to clear away cooling racks and set up a bar of cookie selections on the island. Clint just shook his head at her, loading the dishwasher with baking sheets and mixing bowls. “So, tell me again why we just spent all day making hundreds of cookies that I wasn’t allowed to eat?”

“Cookie decorating party,” Darcy answered simply, pulling bags and bags of different candies from a cabinet. She set placemats along the massive dining room table, putting bowls of each type of candy all around the table so the person at each place would be able to reach every one of them.  “We used to do this every year when I was a kid. Mom and grandma would bake the cookies, then lay out candies and icing for decorating at the table. We kids would pick out our cookies and spend hours decorating them, sneaking candies, and licking icing off our fingers. We always took a picture with all of our cookies and then ate them while watching ‘How the Grinch Stole Christmas. I’ve made Jane do it for years, and now you guys get to as well.”

“We don’t have any icing, Darce.”

The smirk she gave him was one part ‘you’re an idiot, Clint’ and two parts mischief. She dragged bowls and bowls of premade icing out of the fridge and tasked Clint to help her portion them out in pastry bags and dye them into all sorts of colors. Of course, it devolved into a colored icing food fight about midway through. Clint somehow figured out how to turn a pastry bag into a firing mechanism for a long range icing missile. There was a splatter of green across one side of Darcy’s glasses and globs of pink all throughout her hair. Clint remained mostly unscathed except for a patch of blue she’d smacked on the side of his face while he made his retreat. He’d set up behind the island so she couldn’t risk throwing icing back at him without getting frosting all over the blank cookies. Darcy was just about to call for a surrender when she was hit by a stroke of absolute genius. She took one step toward the island, feigned a slip, and crumpled to the ground.

Clint was at her side in an instant. “Shit, shit, SHIT!” he exclaimed, scooping her into his arms, all of his confectionary ammunition forgotten. Darcy stayed limp. “Darce? Darcy, open your eyes!” Just as Clint started to feel around Darcy’s head for a bump, his touch surprisingly gentle, she beaned him on the side of the head with a full pastry bag of purple icing.

The bag burst.

Icing clung to Clint’s hair and face. One of his eyelids was sealed shut by the sugary mixture. Globs fell on Darcy as she absolutely  _ howled _ with laughter in his lap. Clint swiped the icing out of his eye then scooped Darcy up until her face was level with his, her legs falling on either side of his thighs. Her laughter bubbled away as her heart picked up speed. One of her hands landed at the junction of Clint’s neck and shoulder. She could feel his pulse thudding away beneath her palm, racing just as quickly as her own.

“If you’re allowed to scare me that bad to win a food war,” Clint insisted, one hand threading into her hair, “then we have got to revisit that ‘best friend status’ thing.”

Just before their lips met, Darcy muttered out a promise. “If this works out, I will make gingerbread penises every Christmas.”


End file.
